We'll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Ichabod's eyes widened as he took in the frosted landscape. "Lovely," he said, "but not the best weather for maneuvers. Not even in a motorized carriage, I take it."


**Title**: We'll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: K+

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _Ichabod's eyes widened as he took in the frosted landscape. "Lovely," he said, "but not the best weather for maneuvers. Not even in a motorized carriage, I take it."_ 3000 words.

**Spoilers**: Sleepy Hollow, mid-Season 1

**Notes**: For thetidebreaks in Yuletide 2013. Titled from the Robert Burns poem/song, "Auld Lang Syne".

* * *

Abbie stood on the screened-in porch of Sheriff Corbin's cabin, hands tucked in the pockets of her leather jacket, and stared out at the snow. She hadn't noticed how bad it was getting while she and Ichabod had been holed up inside going over some research a little too esoteric to get into at the old Armory, or she would have left hours ago, while it was still daylight.

The temperature must have fallen sharply since the sun went down. She could see icicles dangling from the eaves and glinting under the porch lights on every leaf of the surrounding trees, left behind by the freezing rain the newscasters had warned about that morning, but at some point it must have switched over to a fine, dry snow, layering over the ice like frosting. It was still falling, a heavy powder of tiny flakes: as if someone had filled a giant flour sifter with sugar and started shaking it over Sleepy Hollow. Beautiful, but dangerous, like so many of the things she'd seen since she'd first met Ichabod.

Bad enough to drive on ice: she had chains somewhere in the back of her car, and it was less than four miles back to civilization. But dry snow drifting atop the earlier slick mess would be as slippery as sand, and she _really_ wasn't in the mood to spend an hour slowly skating her way home in the limited visibility of a nighttime snowstorm. Especially since the last mile or so of the road up to the cabin wasn't paved, and the city crews probably wouldn't get to the public roads below for a few more hours at least.

The cabin door opened behind her with a creak, and Ichabod stepped out beside her. "Miss Mills? Are you well?" he asked. "You've been standing out here for several minutes; I thought you were leaving?"

Abbie gave him a rueful smile, then gestured at the white wonderland beyond the screens. "We missed a white Christmas, but it looks like we're going to get a white New Year's," she said.

He turned to look out toward the lake, and his eyes widened as he took in the landscape. "Lovely," he said, "but not the best weather for maneuvers. Not even in a motorized carriage, I take it."

She snorted. "No. Well, not _impossible_, but ... I _was_ kind of working myself up to it."

Ichabod glanced back from the view then, side-eying her with that careful, considering look he got when he wanted to say something that might trample on one of his eighteenth century mores. He was usually pretty confident about navigating the differences between his culture and hers - to the point that she sometimes deliberately needled him with phrases and concepts she knew he wouldn't get, just to see if she could get him to react - but he did tread a lot more cautiously when he thought it mattered.

"I grant that our definition of 'impossible' has been rather stretched of late, but if there is any risk to your life in such conditions, perhaps you had better stay here," he offered. "There _is_ a second bedchamber, undoubtedly fitted during the period when your sister worked with Sheriff Corbin."

Abbie hadn't really explored the cabin much beyond the main room and the kitchen; she hadn't felt up to sorting through Corbin's things, or anything Jenny might have left behind between her trips abroad. Seeing their faces smiling at her from picture frames all around the living room had been difficult enough: years of history between the two people she thought of as family that she had known nothing about. But as potential consequences went, poking at still-healing memories sounded a lot more pleasant than freezing to death in a ditch alongside the road.

"Throw in a cup of coffee in front of the fire, and I think I might just take you up on that," she said, pulling her hands out of her pockets and rubbing them briskly together. Better than cracking open a lonely bottle of champagne back at her place, anyway, even if Ichabod thought the whole ball-drop spectacle was about as ridiculous as 'celebrating Yuletide with a titular display of lumber'. "I've got a go-bag in the car with some spare clothes and things; how about I fetch that, and then I'll be right back in."

He gave her a small, pleased smile. It looked good on him, as always; better than it had any right to. The warm crinkle around blue, blue eyes, those ridiculous locks of hair falling to frame his face, the thick dark beard and mustache bracketing that mobile mouth. "I shall have the coffee ready," he promised, then pushed the door open and went back inside.

"Down girl," Abbie reminded herself. Two centuries plus separated or not, Ichabod was still so very, very married. It was just kind of hard to remember that when he lit up at her that way. She shook her head, then opened the screen door and stepped out onto the snow, focusing her attention on her footing. The crystals squeaked as they compressed under the soles of her boots, and if she took too long a stride her back foot threatened to slide out from under her. She'd be cold enough when she went back in without adding a wet ass to the tally.

Several careful steps later, she hit the unlock button and heard the reassuring click of the locking mechanism ... but when she jiggled the handle, the door didn't budge at all. Between the icefall and the air temperature, the rubber seals had frozen shut. She sighed, then fumbled through her keys for one with a nice sharp edge and used it to clear the gap around the driver's side door. She'd broken a door handle once in similar weather, and had no desire to repeat that particular mechanic's bill. Finally, she jiggled the handle again ... and sighed with relief as it worked.

Her fingers were aching from the chill by the time she got in, kneeling on the seat as she reached around to retrieve her go-bag, and her cheeks were going numb. Between the space heaters and the fire, Abbie was _really_ looking forward to heading back inside. She carefully backed out of the car, stepping back into her last bootprints, then shut the door - and stared in dismay as she caught sight of the cabin.

Sometime during the last five minutes, the porch lights had gone out. And not just the porch lights: every window had gone dim, now showing only the ruddy glow of the fireplace and the flicker of a single candle that sparked to life as she stared. The only light on her path was the glow of the dome light from inside the car ... and even that went dark as she looked down in dismay, the ten-second timer shutting it off automatically.

The power had gone out. Just great.

A shiver went through her as the world all around the cabin faded to muted greys, veiled by the still-falling snow. The air was so quiet, it felt like she'd stuffed cotton batting in her ears; the crunch of the snow as she took another cautious step seemed louder than anything else in the world. She shook her hair free of snow, then carefully, almost blindly, retraced her steps to the porch.

Ichabod gave her a worried look as she came back in. He'd lit several candles around the room in the time it took her to cross back, including the one in the mirror-backed holder over the fireplace; their glow promised more warmth than the glare of electric light, but Abbie wasn't feeling it, shivering hard as she dropped her bag by the door and brushed at her jacket.

"We seem to have lost power, though I do hope the blame this time does not lie with the Hessians," he said, crossing the room to help her with her jacket. "I had hoped to have at least a few days free before we need worry about Moloch and his minions once more."

"I think a branch probably broke and took down the lines," she stuttered out, shivering hard as she pulled her arms out of the snow-dusted leather and brushed at the powdery crystals coating her jeans. "Or maybe more than one. I doubt we can count on it taking just two hours to fix this time."

He hung up the coat, then reached to grasp her hands, and frowned more deeply. "That won't do at all; here, be seated by the fire and wrap yourself in a blanket. I'll see about that coffee."

Her hands felt even colder once he let go of them; she chided herself again silently, then did as he asked and sank onto the couch by the fire, scooping up the blanket draped over the back. "No power, Crane, no coffee," she reminded him wryly, bending over to unpick her snow-crusted laces and kick off her damp boots before gratefully unfolding the thick, hand-stitched quilt.

He gave her an arch look from the entrance to the kitchen. "And how do you imagine we drank coffee in _my_ day?" he chided her. "I can assure you we did, despite the fact that electricity was still largely a theoretical concept."

For some reason, that surprised Abbie, though she knew it really shouldn't. How else would he have got a taste for it? "I guess you had to drink _something_ if you were pouring all the tea into the harbor, huh?" she teased him. "So how _do_ you make coffee without a coffeemaker?"

"It's quite simple, actually; pour the grounds into a pot, boil the pot over a fire, then pour. If one takes sufficient care, the grounds remain in the pot and _not_ the cup. Though we did, on occasion, have to cut the grounds with other substances to eke out the supplies; not a problem you seem to face in this era, fortunately." He took out a Folger's can, spooned a bunch of it into one of the saucepans from under the stove, then filled the pan with water and brought it over to the fireplace.

"Really glad you chopped all that wood now, I bet," she smiled at him as he knelt on the hearth.

"As a means of working off frustration, providing warmth, and exercising one's arm muscles at one and the same time, it _is_ a most practical activity," he replied, lightly.

"Did you have to do that a lot? Eke out supplies, I mean?" she asked absently, trying not to stare too intently at his warmly-lit profile while he stirred the heating water. "I know there were problems funding the war effort; every school kid's heard about Valley Forge. But what was it really like?"

Ichabod shook his head. "It varied by state, and by the phase of the war; but yes, the Continental army was more poorly equipped than otherwise. Particularly early on. We had little capacity to manufacture armaments, so much of our weaponry and ammunition had to be either imported or stolen from the enemy. Supplies were frequently promised by Congress that never arrived - not just food, but clothing and other necessities as well. Shelter was often a problem, as was sickness, and there was a time when the war effort was at such a low ebb that Washington's forces were reduced to less than 5,000 men, some so inadequately equipped as to be entirely naked." He grimaced at that.

"And they were expected to _fight_ like that?" Abbie blurted, eyebrows raised.

The most skin she'd ever seen on Ichabod was the time they'd faced the Sandman, and they'd both had to remove their shirts; she pictured his pale, slenderly muscled chest with its light dusting of chest hair, and felt her cheeks tingle as they warmed. Well, she supposed it _would_ distract the enemy...

Ichabod chuckled and threw her a wry look. "Hardly. Our forces on paper very rarely matched up with the forces we were able to field. Luckily, General Washington and his best officers quickly became experts at making the most of what they had. Many was the time they retreated from a battle against a superior and better-equipped force, yet still managed to secure a strategic victory."

"Did you do a lot of fighting, then? Or was it mostly spy stuff? Like the documents you delivered, and the Boston Tea Party thing - you know Sam Adams got the credit for that, right?"

"I am aware," he rolled his eyes. "Though unlike the quote Thomas Jefferson stole from me, the attribution was intentional in that case. I had only been counted among the Patriots for two years, and though Washington favored me for reasons of his own, there were many others whose loyalty and hard work were of far longer standing - and who could better stand the light of public scrutiny. For indeed, I worked as much on the clandestine side of things as I fought with the Continental forces."

"Hmm." Abbie settled deeper into the couch, folding her legs to tuck her stocking feet up under her thighs. "So which was it - that battlefield you died on, I mean? There wasn't much officially going on in New York in 1781; at least, not in my textbooks. Most of the battles were down south that year."

"I've found that quite a lot is not in your textbooks. Or is so sufficiently altered as to make me wonder whether observer bias or intentional misinformation is at work," Ichabod shrugged, then shifted the boiling pan to the hearth and went back to the kitchen for a couple of mugs.

"Misinformation? Like what?" she blinked at him.

"Oh, just as one example - that Colonel Tarleton did not arrive in the Colonies until 1775," he said, crossing back to the hearth and kneeling to very carefully pour hot, dark liquid from the pan to a mug. Even under the shroud of his uniform coat, she could see the muscles of his arm and shoulder moving, smooth and sure. "Which I know to be impossible, as I myself arrived in 1771 and served under the man. Here." Ichabod paused to carefully turn the handle out, then lifted the mug and held it out to her.

Abbie took it, cupping her hands around it to bask in its warmth - and the warmth of his gaze. "Was that the one you said turned into a demon?"

"The selfsame." He poured himself the second mug, then pushed the pan back near the flames and stood, obviously not looking at the space on the couch beside her.

Abbie rolled her eyes, then patted the seat, scooting over to give him more room. "Then I'm not surprised. What with all the codes and secret documents and Hessian mercenaries running around with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, what's a little revisionist history?"

"What indeed." He settled gingerly next to her, copying her grip on his mug, then took a careful sip.

She followed suit. It wasn't the tastiest coffee she'd ever had, but it was warm, and it was _coffee_, and that was the important thing. Abbie let out a satisfied sigh, then smiled at him. "Thank you."

"For the coffee? It was no great service; I merely made enough for an extra cup," Ichabod demurred.

"For everything. For hanging that 'oversized hosiery'." She nodded at the mantelpiece where he'd displayed her Christmas gift. "For letting me stay tonight."

He smiled back at her. "I am quite certain it is no more than you would have done for me."

Abbie sighed, then looked away again and leaned over to set her mug on an end table. How was she supposed to be practical when he said such things? "Then let me return at least part of the favor, and scoot on over here," she told him, lifting the edge of the quilt nearest Ichabod. "I can already feel the chill in the air in here; the fire can't warm us on _all_ sides."

Ichabod looked down at the blanket, then up at her face, his expression and posture suddenly resembling nothing so much as a ruffled cat. "Miss Mills..."

"_Abbie_," she said. "I insist that anybody I huddle for warmth with, call me Abbie."

"I assure you, I am quite capable of tolerating far colder temperatures than this," he tried again.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not," she flipped the edge of the blanket at him. "C'mon. Bring your ridiculously warm self and your coffee over this way, and we can sing our Auld Lang Synes before the fire burns down and you have to burrow back out to get more wood."

Ichabod shivered as if at the very thought, then caved. "Oh, very well. I suppose it is only sensible," he said as he moved over, helping her shift the blanket so it covered them both. "Though - Auld Lang Syne? I'm afraid I don't know the reference, beyond the Scottish phrase meaning 'long, long ago'."

"You - _what_? Don't tell me that song was after your time, too," she sighed. "Damn."

His shoulder was furnace-warm, pressed against hers; she wasn't looking at him, and she was pretty sure he was deliberately not looking at her, but she could hear his breath only inches away. And in that moment, she found she was content with that: even if he never found closure with Katrina and looked at her the way she sometimes wanted him to, even if all they ever were was partners and co-Witnesses together. He was there; he shared her secrets; they saved each other; he _understood_. Even when they seemed mutually incomprehensible to each other.

"Then there is only one thing to be done; you must educate me in it," he shrugged.

She closed her eyes and smiled. "All right, then; if you promise not to laugh."

"Never," he murmured, with only a hint of irony in his tone.

She cleared her throat, then began.

-x-


End file.
